


the right of the people to keep and bear arms

by pocky_slash



Series: Iowa [7]
Category: West Wing
Genre: Established Relationship, Guns, Iowa, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-30
Updated: 2008-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's uncomfortable with Will's service pistol. Then he's uncomfortable for other reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the right of the people to keep and bear arms

**Author's Note:**

> The title is ripped from the second amendment. I am bad at titles. **eta:** Also, everything I know about Iowa gun laws and firing guns and crap like that I learned from Wiki and Google, so... forgive me if it's a little sketchy and incorrect.
> 
> This is for [](http://carcinya.livejournal.com/profile)[**carcinya**](http://carcinya.livejournal.com/) , who asked for Will being scarily good with a gun (although I want to write another ficlet about this, too) and [](http://scrollgirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**scrollgirl**](http://scrollgirl.livejournal.com/), who asked for Sam and Will in Iowa. I am beginning to forget that Sam and Will exist outside of Iowa. I think I need to re-watch season four again XD

When Sam comes home from a typical day of wandering around town, he starts to think that perhaps he should find a job. He doesn't spend much money and has more than enough saved up, but now that he's staying, now that Iowa is more than a cautious whim, he's beginning to get bored. He'd thinking about asking Will for his opinion and for suggestions, wiping his feet on the mat and wondering whether or not he has a book or two in him, when the sight of Will sitting on the floor derails him.

It's the sight of Will sitting on the floor cleaning a handgun that really throws him off, and he stops in his tracks to stare, any other thoughts immediately fleeing his mind.

"Hey," Will says, as if nothing is wrong, "how goes the life of a transient drifter?" He's sitting cross-legged with his back to the couch and he has all sorts of--what Sam can only imagine are--gun accouterments spread out in front of him. The air smells sharp and acrid and Will has dark smudges on his hands.

"That bad, huh?" Will says, looking up at Sam with a wry smile. Sam blinks and comes back to himself. His coat is hanging off his elbows, frozen in the act of removal, so he slides it off and tosses it over the back of a chair.

"Not transient," he says, catching up to the conversation. They don't talk about it, his sudden arrival in Iowa and his desire to stay, but he hopes Will knows anyway, knows that this is the first place since DC that's felt like home. "Not transient," he repeats, "just unemployed."

Will lifts himself up from the floor with effort, still grinning. The grin loosens something in Sam's chest, let's him know that Will knows he's settled in for the long haul.

"Transient sounds better," Will says, picking carefully across the floor towards Sam.

"'Transient' and 'drifter' are two words that mean the same thing," Sam counters automatically.

"I'm using transient as an adjective," Will says.

"But 'transient' is implied in the definition of 'drifter,'" Sam says. Will chuckles and shakes his head.

"Which one of us is the professor again?" He wiggles his fingers, finally in front of Sam, and added, "Don't touch me, I'm all greasy." It serves to remind Sam of the scene he walked in on and highlight his confusion, even as Will leans in for a kiss. When Will pulls back, he's frowning. "Don't get too excited to see me, now," he says. Then, "Hey, what's wrong?"

"Why is there a handgun in our living room?" Sam asks.

"I'm cleaning it," Will says. "Don't tell me unemployment has already obliterated your powers of observation. I'm renewing my permit, remember?"

Sam remembers it vaguely from last night's dinner conversation. Will had said exactly that--"renewing my permit"--and he had assumed it had something to do with his job, not...

"Why do you have a gun?" Sam asks.

"Service pistol," Will says. "I mostly wrote briefs and defended idiot pilots in court, but I was an officer and they did occasionally let me play with the fun toys."

"And you keep it here in the house?" Sam asks. His eyes wander over Will's shoulder to the disassembled gun on the floor. It looks harmless enough when it's broken into pieces and littering their shabby carpet, but the idea of a gun lurking in the back of a drawer somewhere is still sinister.

"Locked in a box on the top shelf of the closet, yeah," Will says, eyeing Sam critically. "Even if Jackson could get at it, he lacks the opposable thumbs to use it and I think you know better. Is this a problem, Sam?"

Sam bites his lip and thinks about it. It's been fifteen years, but sometimes he still has nightmares about gunfire, about blood pouring out of his best friend's chest, about not getting there in time.

"I... don't think so," Sam says, but he knows there's no conviction in it.

"Sam." Will's voice is gentle and measured, like he knows exactly what Sam is thinking. He probably does. "I've got a permit. The gun is registered. I'm careful and I was trained by a four star general who happened to be in charge of one of the most powerful military forces in the world. This gun has been here longer than you have and you didn't even know it. Don't worry about it, please."

Sam frowns. "I won't," he says, but it's unconvincing even to his own ears. Will wipes his hands on his pants and wraps an arm around Sam's waist, cupping his cheek with his other hand.

"Come with me tonight," he says. "To the firing range, I mean. I understand why you're uncomfortable, and being uncomfortable is okay, but you shouldn't be afraid."

Sam can feel the greasy smudge on his cheek, smell the gun oil that's transferred from Will's thumb, and finds himself nodding. He's still unsure about it, but Will has a good point and his smile of relief is more than worth the slight anxiety.

***

Will washes up and they have an early dinner, during which Sam mentions his listlessness and ends up with a list of fifteen people at the college that he should call and twelve ideas for books. He get the feeling that Will has been as uneasy about his stagnation as he's been, but was afraid to mention it. He appreciates the support, though, and is having such a good time scribbling down Will's suggestions that he almost forgets where they're headed next.

Almost.

Will takes the box the gun is locked in and his keys and leads the way out to the car, with only a single glance over his should to make sure Sam is following. He gives Sam a reassuring smile once they're buckled into the car and leans over to kiss him. Sam manages to smile back, but he's still not sure what to expect as they pull out of the driveway and head into town.

It's not far to the Sheriff's office, at least, not far in the Iowan terms that Sam has started to accept. He can't jog down to a drugstore on the corner anymore, but the car ride isn't bad, comparatively. He follows Will into the Sheriff's office and offers a weak smile and wave to Deputy Marsh and Tina Lewis, the dispatcher on duty. Will fills out a few forms while chatting with the Sheriff about the new pie flavor that Marta over at the diner is debuting this weekend, and Tina, whose father is their veterinarian and who has a little crush on both of them, asks Sam about how Jackson is doing. It's just like any other trip into town, except that Sam is still uneasy, especially when Will asks to fire a few rounds and Sheriff Nolan grabs his keys and leads them out back.

"Just giving a little demonstration for Sam," Will says to the Sheriff, who laughs.

"I know you know your way around a firearm, son, but can I trust Sam not to ruin my shooting range?" Nolan asks with a wink. "The college was nice enough to spruce it up a couple years ago and I'd hate to ruin all the new equipment."

"I don't think Sam is going to be firing anything today," Will says. He reaches out and brushes his fingers over Sam's hand.

"Couldn't ask for a better teacher, though," Nolan says. "I wish you'd come down here and do lessons, son. Once a month, tops. Eddie's getting old, he's not as sharp as he used to be, and I frankly don't trust Donnie Barnhart." He looks at Sam, jerking his thumb at Will. "For a city-boy academic, he's a hell of a shot. Hell, he's a hell of a shot for _anyone_."

"Ron," Will says, grinning and looking away, "Come on. What do you expect? Even Elsie can fire a gun. The firing range was Bailey family bonding time."

Sam believes it, but he thinks a more accurate statement would be that _everything_ was Bailey Family bonding time. If there's one thing Sam has learned about Tom Bailey since moving in with Will, it's that he likes his children to be well-rounded. They can all fire a gun, sure, but they all also had a massive library at their disposal and went to the theatre or a film with their parents at least once a month while living at home. They all played sports and they all at least attempted to play instruments. Some of the activities never took with some of the children, and some of them worked out surprisingly well. General Thomas Bailey Junior, for instance, is also skilled on the piano. Elsie is a demon in a pair of ice skates. And Will, bookish Will with his law degree and his speech writing, can hit a target dead center without even trying.

Once they enter the firing range and turn on the lights, Nolan leaves them the keys and asks Will to lock up. Will hops over the gate to the office, where an attendant sits during the day when the range is open to the college and the public. He emerges a second later with two pair of goggles and two pair of large plastic ear muffs.

"Put them on," Will says. He holds onto Sam's hands once he hands them over, looks him straight in the eye, and adds, "Trust me."

Sam nods and does as he's told. He does trust Will. He trusts Will with everything. But fifteen years ago while sitting in a hospital waiting room, he vowed never to have anything to do with a firearm. Even though more than a decade has past, he still fiercely believes in that promise and looks at guns with trepidation and fear. Will's right in saying that's dangerous, more dangerous than gun ownership, but he's never been good at confronting things that scare him.

It's a good thing that's what he has Will for.

"It's going to be loud," Will says, shouting a little to be heard over the ear muffs.

"I figured," Sam shouts back.

"Just making sure," Will says. He's taken the gun out of the box and it's lying on the ledge of the closest stall. There's a paper cut out of a black target at the end of the stall. Sam feels like he's stepped into an episode of _Law and Order_. "You ready?"

Sam bites his lip and nods.

It is loud, louder, even, then Sam expected. He jumped at the initial sound, his heart hammering in his chest, breath coming quickly. The sound stops and Will cocks his head, looking at Sam expectantly. Sam takes a deep breath and nods again, and when Will gestures him over, he takes a look. Even from where he's standing, he can see that there are five holes in the paper, in a neat little ring right in the center of the target. Sam's pretty sure he couldn't have drawn a neater circle with a compass.

"Stand closer," Will says. "Watch." Then he turns back to the target and starts to fire again.

Sam doesn't jump this time, and after a second he gets used to the sound. Will makes it look easy. He's relaxed and loose and smiling as he destroys the flimsy sheet of paper, and though he knows he's supposed to be watching the target, Sam finds himself watching Will instead, the way his muscles move under his t-shirt, the way his fingers are wrapped around the weapon itself, the way that sweat starts to bead right where the goggles are pressing into his forehead.

He looks at the target, too, because the way that Will is blissfully and systematically demolishing it is a lot hotter than it has any right to be.

Sam watches him through two targets and is startled when the noise stops and Will is standing there, grinning at him.

"See?" he says, and then puts the gun down and takes off his ear muffs. "Fun. Easy. Not dangerous if you know what you're doing, not going to hurt anyone if it's stored in the back of the closet with a lock." Sam nods, weakly. Will still has his goggles on and there's still a bead of sweat resting right at the top of his temple. "You want to give it a whirl?"

Sam thinks of a dozen silly television shows and movies, of the sexual tension that's always played up when someone is teaching someone else how to fire a weapon, standing close and touching all over. He thinks of the way Will's arms flexed just slightly with the motion of pulling the trigger.

"Um," he says, trying to catch his breath, "maybe next time."

It takes Will a second to catch on to the way that Sam is looking at him, but when he does, he laughs. It's a good laugh, low and deep, and he smirks before turning around to lock the gun back in its box. He replaces the paper of the target and sends it back to the opposite end of the stall, and then turns to Sam to collect his goggles and ear muffs. Before removing his own, Sam reaches out and takes off Will's goggles, running his thumb along Will's temple, chasing that droplet of sweat down the side of Will's face.

"My god, Sam," Will says, closing his eyes, "if you ruin this shooting range for me... the next closest place is thirty miles from here, and if I have to go there because I can't shoot here without thinking about you and getting hard, I swear to god there will be hell to pay."

Sam laughs. "I'd rather be associated with the bedroom at home," he admits, and laughs again when Will grabs the ear muffs and goggles from his hands and nearly tosses them onto the other side of the desk in his haste.

"Home?" Will asks, offering Sam his hand.

"Home," Sam agrees. As they lock up and head back to the car a little more hastily than usual, they smile at each other. Under the heat and need, there's a warm familiarity, a safety that Sam has gotten used to. He thinks, maybe, he can get used to the handgun, too.


End file.
